


Not Bad For A Dead Lesbian

by lighterdenial



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Caretaking, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Harrow the Ninth Spoilers (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Light Dom/sub, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Post-Gideon the Ninth (Locked Tomb Trilogy), Post-Harrow the Ninth (Locked Tomb Trilogy), i mean REALLY light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29524098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lighterdenial/pseuds/lighterdenial
Summary: Post HtN, both Gideon & Harrowhark have been reunited with their original bodies and have been returned to the mortal coil, but Harrow can't stop waking Gideon up at night with her screaming as she adjusts to being alive in her own body again. Gideon takes it upon herself to take care of Harrow. The lesbians need to actually communicate with each other. Also, Gideon can cook.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62





	Not Bad For A Dead Lesbian

This time, you woke up screaming. 

“Hey, whoa, whoa, it’s OK,” was the first thing you heard me say. It had been long enough that you had forgotten how to have lungs, how to cope with your own heartbeat, how to feel your meat from the new, small muscles at your shoulders to your violently shaking fingertips. (Yes, I used your meat for something other than crouching over dusty books, and I ate more than a few decent meals while I wore it. Deal with it.) You were still pretty feral and haggard looking though, mostly wild-eyed, hollering at the top of your lungs like it was your job, and you didn’t stop until you ran out of breath. 

“Harrowhark,” I said, taking a step back, “it’s me.”

“I thought – I thought you were …“ You coughed quite a bit here. 

“Yeah, I was, but even death couldn’t keep us apart,” I said, half-joking, half-serious.

“Griddle.” You had regained your breath enough to snap at me, which was a good sign. 

“You should have some water. My throat was really dry when I stopped being dead,” I said, offering you a glass of lukewarm water cautiously. 

“How did you –? How did I-? Was it Camilla?” 

“Yes, and Palamedes mostly, both of them, they did it for us. Drink the rest of that water, you need it.” We sat silently while you drained the glass, then I stood, walked to the bathroom, and refilled it at the sink. Handing it to you, I sat down on a chair beside your bed.

“You didn’t... look, did you?” You noticed all of a sudden that you were sitting up in a bed, that I was in my own (hot) body again, and that you had only a simple black long-sleeved top and pants on. No paint. Instinctively, you pulled the blankets up a little higher around your waist. 

“I had to shower, Harrow! But no… I didn’t do anything with your meat, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Good.” You crossed your arms, still pretty skinny after the time I spent trying to feed and exercise you in the driver’s seat. “You’ve had me lifting weights.” Accusing. 

“I mean, yes, what was I supposed to do? I needed to be able to defend myself.” 

“Griddle!” 

“I’m not a necromancer! All I have is this sword and these biceps, and in your meat, I don’t even have the biceps!” 

You shivered again. Instinctively, I moved a little toward you, but you flinched away. 

“I’ll have to tell Camilla and Palamedes thank you,” you said, a little weakly, but in fairness, you had been dead until about 15 minutes ago. 

“I can – go get them if you like?” All this time working so hard to bring you back, piloting your meat, trying to keep you alive, and now I didn’t know what to say. Or I didn’t know how to say it. “Do you need another blanket?” 

“Don’t fuss over me, Griddle,” you said. “…but I’d like another blanket.” I reached behind my chair and pulled out another knit blanket that was probably older than Aiglamene, but still perfectly serviceable, and spread it on your lap with perhaps a little more tenderness than was strictly necessary. “… Thank you. You can go now,” you said, settling yourself in. I noticed how small you looked, how your shoulders sloped downwards, and how your chest caved in slightly. I thought about a witty response, but instead stood and left without another word. 

-

Despite my best efforts (push-ups, Harrow!), being dead threw you for a major loop, and several times, I heard you shouting in frustration at your own limbs, “Work, damn you!” and the always-present clattering and swearing after your legs unexpectedly took you in a direction you don’t want to go. And the screaming, so late at night it became early in the morning, long enough and loud enough to wake me up in the room across the hall. 

“Are you okay?” I knocked on your door, glass of water in one hand. I didn’t know what else to bring. 

“I’m fine,” came your curt, if a little breathless, reply. “I won’t bother you anymore.” 

“I’m coming in,” I announced, unlatching your door and opening it far enough to slip inside, closing it behind me. “Drink this.” You shot me a look but accepted anyway. “I remember being thirsty enough to kill someone when I first came back,” I said. “I thought it would be the same for you.” 

“I could kill you,” you said, and I snorted, because you were in no condition. 

“You can’t even get out of bed without tripping over your own feet,” I said, “You couldn’t kill me if you tried.”

“I’m still the best and brightest necromancer of my generation, Nav,” you said haughtily, but with an edge of weariness.   
“And I’m – what was it you said? Gideon the Ninth, first flower of my-“ 

“I don’t want to talk about that,” you said, new strength and venom seeping into your voice. “I thought we were going to die.”

“And we did! And here we are again! Not dead!” 

You were silent for a long time, and for a moment, I thought you had gone to sleep again. 

“We were. And… you are.” It was light enough that I could see you were being genuine – well, as genuine as you got. 

“Thanks, Harrow.” I was a little taken aback. I didn’t know what to say. You were uncharacteristically vulnerable. “Listen, I should – I should get back to bed.” 

“Good night, Griddle,” you said, slumping back into your blankets, setting your glass on the table beside you. “Latch the door on your way out.” 

-

Most days you studied long hours at your desk in your room or in your bed, propped up. On the days you didn’t get out of bed, I worried, but buried my worry in exercise, doing pull-ups in the small room that passed for a gym until I felt that my arms were jelly, and sparring with Camilla. 

“It’s perfectly normal,” she said. “Harrowhark will be fine, eventually.”

“What?” 

“I know you’re worried, Gideon,” she said, “but this is part of her healing process. It takes a lot to come back from being dead, even if one's body never really died.” 

“Then why wasn’t it like this for me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re his daughter.” I made a face. I didn’t much like that. “Maybe it’s because she had less tolerance before. Maybe it’s got something to do with thanergy.” She shrugged. “You shouldn’t worry too much about her recovery. She’s actually coming along splendidly.” Then why is she still waking me up screaming every night? I wanted to ask, but I bit my tongue. Camilla threw me a rapier. 

“Let’s practice. You need to keep up if you’re going to improve.” 

For a few hours, I barely had time to think about anything except how god-awful my parry was. 

Later that night, I came to bring you dinner. Most nights, you did not eat unless someone went out of their way to remind you, and even then, you ate like a small bird. Camilla did most of our cooking, although tonight, I had decided to try my hand. Since I liked eating so much, cooking couldn’t be that hard, right? It turned out that cooking was VERY hard, although, for a first attempt, what I had made was downright edible. I brought you a small bowl of rice with vegetables cut up unevenly in a light brown sauce. 

“Have you eaten today?” I must have startled you, because you sat bolt upright at your desk and turned around sharply.  
“No,” you admitted. “What is that?” 

“Uh… rice. And vegetables. And sauce. Gravy.” I came into your room and handed you the bowl and spoon. You took a very small bite cautiously. 

“It’s… good.” You held it in your mouth a minute before swallowing. I suppressed a grin. “Not too salty.” 

“Palamedes said it was bland at dinner tonight. I thought it might be perfect for you.” You paused, spoon halfway to your mouth.

“You made this?” you asked. 

“And what if I did?” 

“It’s passable.” You resumed eating, casting me a suspicious look. 

“I’m glad we’re past trying to poison each other,” I joked. “That got old pretty fast in Drearburh.” You pressed your eyes closed for a moment, pausing. “You almost killed me several times over.” 

“What good would it do if I brought you back just to kill you again?” The ghost of a smile on your face. Or maybe you were just eating. 

“Well, if you did, I’d come back to haunt your ass again, Nonagesimus,” I said. “again, and again. You won’t be able to get rid of me.” Some unknowable emotion passed your face. 

“Thank you,” you said, handing me the bowl. “That will be all.” You turned back to your books and notes. I noticed as I left that you had eaten all of it. High praise from you. 

-

Over the next week, I continued to cook, and spar, and work out, determinedly keeping busy, trying to feel useful. I cooked dinner every day, with Camilla even telling me that I was steadily improving (despite many burned bits). I brought food to you every evening. I checked on you every night when you woke me up. I only heard you struggling with commanding your legs once, and a few times, I could have sworn I saw a small black figure watching me in the gym or sparring or felt a presence while I was turned towards the stove. One early afternoon, I was lifting weights, a dingy grey towel slung around my shoulders, sweating lightly from an earlier sparring bout with Camilla, when I caught you at the doorway. 

“You can come in. I don’t bite. Hard.” You looked disgusted at my terrible joke, but came in, staring intentionally right over my head. 

“I have a request,” you said, sounding reluctant and a little resentful, “for dinner.” 

“Your wish is my command,” I said, a little smugly.

“I was reading a book. In the book, they mentioned – it’s a kind of sauce. Like the sauce you made last week. It’s called – “ you hesitated, looking straight at me – “fettuccine Alfredo.” 

“I can do that, what’s in it?” I didn’t stop my reps, which I definitely noticed was making you a little flustered.

“Cheese, mostly,” you said, straightening up. “And milk. And butter. Pasta. I think I’d like to try it.” You passed a piece of parchment with your cramped writing on it to my free hand. I glanced at it.

“Shouldn’t be too hard. Will you be coming to dinner tonight?” I asked hopefully. You hesitated.

“I have a lot of work to do,” you hedged. “Maybe… maybe you could bring it to me?” 

“Of course, Nonagesimus,” I said, flashing my teeth. A little too cheesy to be a real smile.   
-  
Four hours later, I had made a passable fettuccine alfredo. Or at least, I thought so. Palamedes and Camilla both agreed that it was a little too bland, the sauce lacking garlic, and I didn’t want them to know I had done it on purpose so that you would like it. You probably didn’t know that I had caught on that the only time you really enjoyed what you ate was when I cooked for you. I excused myself from the dinner table with your usual small bowl balanced carefully in my hand, a knowing look from both the other cavalier and her necromancer. Whatever. They didn’t have to judge. 

As always, you were at your desk, working on something different (always something different every time I saw you, something dreadful and necromantic and probably more complicated than I cared to understand).

“Room service,” I said lightly. 

“Come in,” you said, turning towards me and putting down your pencil. I noticed, but did not mention, that you had two small spots of color on your cheeks and looked healthier than I had ever seen you. Which isn’t saying much, considering we were both literally reanimated corpses possessing ourselves but… I don’t like to think too hard about it. 

“Tell me how it is,” I say by way of introduction, popping a squat on your carpet. 

“Are you just going to watch me eat, Nav?” You shot me a look.

“It hasn’t been a problem all week long. And besides, I’m proud of my cooking. No bones in it.” I couldn’t resist a subtle dig. 

“That was one time, and you were technically dead, and it was my own – oh, never mind. Don’t bring up things you saw while you hitched a ride in my head.” You took an aggressive forkful of fettuccine. “This is good, Griddle,” you said, “You followed my recipe.” 

“I didn’t realize it was your recipe,” I said, “I thought it was just a recipe.” You sniffed haughtily in my general direction but continued eating, so I considered it a win. I stood up awkwardly, scuffed my foot for a moment, and then said, “Welp, I’ve got somewhere to be,” even though we both knew it was a total lie, and turned to leave. 

“Thank you,” you said unexpectedly.

“You’re welcome,” I replied.

-

Another late night bled into early morning. You woke me up almost like clockwork, and shaking the sleep out of my limbs, I rose dutifully again. I didn’t knock anymore, just let myself quietly into your room.

“Why do you keep coming?” you asked, clutching the glass of water in your trembling fingers. “You don’t have to.” I shrugged one shoulder. 

“Nobody came for me after I…” I trailed off. “And besides, it’s… you needed me.” 

“I don’t need anybody,” you said hollowly, low in your chest.

“I do,” I said lightly, trying to play it off. Trying to get you to say the rest of it before I did. 

“Why does it matter to you if I wake up screaming?" 

“Oh, so we’re having this talk at 2 AM?” I asked. I settled on your desk chair. "Does it really matter to you?"

"Yes, Griddle, it matters to me. I want to know why, really." You looked like you wanted to say something else, so I gave you a minute, but you didn't, so I started talking instead. 

“Because I died, and you died, and everything’s different now, but the same, and because I don’t really know how to deal with that, and because I don’t know how you’re really doing, you just sit in here and study all day long, and I’m worried about you, Harrow, I feel a little bit responsible-“

“Why do you feel responsible when I’m the reason you died in the first place?” you spat. “When it’s all my fault, and as much as I try, I’m never going to make up for that, ever, as long as I live!” Your eyes were wild, and you leaned forward toward me, out of the bed, short black hair sticking up at all angles. 

“Shut up, Harrowhark,” I said, and leaned forward to kiss you. Just as much to stop you from talking as to show you that you didn’t need to make up for anything, not after so many years of being at each other’s throats, not after we both died and came back, not after anything. 

“Ghhk,” you said, or something similar, with my tongue halfway down your throat, but you were kissing me back, and I didn’t much care what you were trying to say, because then you were pulling me forward by my loose tanktop and I was climbing into your bed, my legs on either side of your hips, and you were still a little damp from your night terror sweat, and you didn’t really know how to kiss, but neither did I, so it was okay. 

“Do you get it now?” I asked. “Why I wake up every night to take care of you and bring you dinner?” 

“Oh, Gideon,” you said, breathing heavily, pushing me insistently back and to one side so that you could switch places and get on top of me. We had to stop for a moment because your legs got snarled in your blankets, but I lifted you up and laid back and sat you on top of me, marveling at how small you were in comparison. You ran your hands up and down my chest, touching my arms, kissing me like you were drowning and I was air. You bit me once or twice, too over-eager, but I didn’t care. I held you to me with equal enthusiasm. 

“My necromancer,” I said, “Have I not made my life into an altar for you?”, resting my forehead on yours.   
“You are all I’ve ever wanted,” you said, “before I knew how to want.” And because I couldn’t top that, I kissed you again, and your hands moved below my shirt to touch my breasts, and I grabbed your ass, and you moaned into my mouth, and I so wished that we had done this sooner. 

“Less clothes?” I asked hopefully, and you rolled your eyes, and said, “It’s fewer, Griddle,” but grabbed the hem of my tank top and pulled it over my head, only hesitating when my fingers started to pull at your shirt – “Can we – not yet,” and I nodded swiftly because it didn’t matter, and slipped my hand into your leggings to touch your pussy and you made a sound that was so much better than hearing you scream in terror. You ground yourself against my fingers before I could even find your clit, hand snaking around the back of my neck and kissing me before saying breathlessly, “More, Griddle,” and I obeyed.

“Bossy, bossy,” I teased, before you pushed down on my fingers and I finally was able to start stroking your clit and I felt you grasp desperately at me as you came. I felt like we were the center of the universe, that we were the only things in the universe, or at least the only things that mattered. 

“Not bad for a dead lesbian, huh?” You collapsed against my chest, breathing heavily, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were snuggling me. 

But then you moved to fiddle with the ties of my sleep pants, and I helped you, and you were between my legs and asking, “May I?” and this time, I was the one to make a thoroughly un-sexy sound as you ate my pussy like you had been reanimated just for this purpose. I tried to thread my hand through your hair, or touch you in some way, but you ordered “Hands at your sides, Gideon,” and I lost all conscious thought except for the steady stream of “Harrow, Harrowhark, please, Harrow,” that I was chanting. 

You were suspiciously good at eating pussy despite being an awkward kisser, and what you lacked in experience, you made up for in enthusiasm. I swear you must have been writing your name on me, but I didn’t care, because I was yours anyway. I didn’t bother to stay quiet, but came loudly after only a few minutes of you licking my cunt, gripping the sheets of your bed, and then reaching for you. 

You came up to lay next to me, exhausted, cheeks thoroughly flushed, and kissed me gently, touching my face like you couldn’t believe I was real. And given what we had gone through, frankly, it’s a miracle that we were both real, and here, and together. 

You grabbed my hand with sudden urgency when I pulled away from our kiss. “Will you … will you stay with me?” 

“Of course I will, babe,” I said, wrapping my arm around you and pulling you closer to me. “As long as you need.”

“Every night?” 

“Harrowhark,” I said, looking you square in the eyes, “Every night, for the rest of our lives, if you’ll have me.” 

“Good,” you said, satisfied, and turned around so that I could put my arms around you and you could be the little spoon.

“Harrowhark,” I said again.

“Yes, Griddle?” 

“Your bony little bits are pressing into all my softest parts.” 

“Good,” you said again, but shifted a little so that I could be comfortable, and as I drifted off to sleep holding you, something small and tense and knotted inside my chest finally released.


End file.
